


Today's Adventure: 44 Hours

by phipiohsum475



Series: The Adventures of Wills & Wills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Adventures of Pete & Pete
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Children's TV Plotlines, First Person, Gen, Kid!Lock, Mild Surrealism, POV Mycroft, Staying Home Alone, teen!croft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4770116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mum and Dad decided that Big William (whom they refuse to call Mycroft) is old enough to be in charge of Little William this year when they go to their annual line dancing conference.</p><p>You don't even have to *know* what the Adventures of Pete & Pete are to enjoy this!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fusion, which means instead of living in the world of Pete & Pete, Mycroft and Sherlock are essentially Pete & Pete. 
> 
> There are definitely elements of surrealism to the show (in the show itself, a bowling ball rolls its way back "home" after being "set free" at the Canadian border), so expect similar oddities here.
> 
> Expect childish (ableit Holmesian) style shenanigans, brotherly love, brotherly fights, and a generally fun time.

The day started like any other, a balmy day at 23 degrees, a murder of crows seeking the seed of the overgrown grass, and Sherlock and I were relegated to weed the garden, per our father’s very specific instructions. He’d conscribed my brother to develop aerating loafers, so that as we pulled the weeds from the ground, we tilled the soil simultaneously. It produced the rather unfortunate effect of making us look like the cat my brother had stuffed into mittens last winter. Which suited Sherlock just fine, it amused him, but I found it humiliating.

Our father called to us from the front stoop, and nearly pranced over to us as we crab walked out of his garden. “My boys,” my father beamed, “My young men. Growing so big. I have just the most splendid news. Today, I have the pleasure of-”

My father continued his lecture, his pride near palpable, though Sherlock and I had already tuned him out. He was always gushing some sort of sentiment that often the two of us. I glanced to Sherlock, who stomped his feet into the yard as he waited for our father to get the point. He looked back to me, stuck out a foot and grinned at his ridiculous footwear. I rolled my eyes and looked back to my father who was still talking.

“Dad, please,” I finally spoke up, “Just tell us.” “Wills, Wills,” he addressed the two of us, “Your mum and I have decided that this year, while we head to our line dancing convention, you are in charge. We’ll leave before supper, and the house is yours until Sunday afternoon.”

His words echoed in my head, and I looked at Sherlock to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating. But Sherlock’s grin confirmed everything I needed to know. I was near speechless. Sherlock even wisely kept his mouth shut. It was like a dream, to be have the full freedom of the house, no parents, no well meaning family members conveniently arriving to nanny us, no rules. Well, just the ones my father had regarding his gardening tools. He seemed to believe that Sherlock and I were far more dedicated to his flowers and fruits than we actually were. But as we had absolutely no intent on taking up renegade gardening this weekend, I still stipulate that we had _no rules_.

Sherlock was quite hasty in attempting to shove our parents out the door, and into the bulky station wagon they bought years ago when Sherlock finally outgrew his child’s seat. But my father stopped him, looking at me.

“Just one last item,” he announced, and held up the house keys, though we rarely used them. I held out my hand, and watched him, as if in slow motion, let go, the keys tumbling down towards my palm. They clattered together, sounds like heavenly chimes in my ears, but I kept my enthusiasm at a low boil, waving as they drove away.

Sherlock and I turned to the house, walking solemnly, like men, to the door. There was something clearly psychological at play, because we both viewed the house in a new light, splendid and glorious.

“And _ours_ ,” Sherlock smirked.

“Tchaikovsky?” I asked, with a devilish smile upon my face.

“I’ve already rewired the sound system,” Sherlock agreed. I shuffled through mother’s collection of vinyl, pulling out the record she rarely let us play, and always refused to let the 1812 Overture play at all. Too loud, she complained, too garish at the end. We’d heard pale comparisons on 8 tracks during our music lectures, but we were assured that the best presentation was a well designed system and a vinyl record. Sherlock went straight to the player, pulling out wires he’d hidden from behind the bookshelves, and plugging them in. I knew my brother was rather talented with small electronics, though slowly in the past few months I had begun to watch his interest turn to chemistry.

Regardless, I anticipated that this was to be spectacular. “The windows?” I checked.

“Should be opened,” Sherlock nodded with a dangerous look.

“The neighbor’s windows?” I questioned, becoming concerned.

“Not our problem,” he shrugged, and against my better judgment, I shrugged with him, and set about opening the few windows in the house that weren’t already opened to allow the summer wind to flow. I ran back down to the sitting room, and Sherlock had his hand on the player, waiting for me.

With his eyes blazing, he nodded at me, and I nodded back. He’d already queued the record, and I knew we’d start right before the cannons were set to fire. He flipped the switch, and the arm went down. We hurried to the speakers on the either side of the room. As the first blow of the first cannon, I realized our mistake. We’d opened the window to let the sound waves escape, but the pictures in the sitting room, the Hallway of Family Ancestors? I cringed as I heard them shatter. But it didn’t matter. The sheer power of the cannons pressed Sherlock and I against the far wall, and I could, with confidence, shout loudly over the church bells, “This is going to be a fantastic weekend!”

-o-

We started the whole record over again, after shutting the thin summer curtains, turning down the volume and cleaning the furniture out of the way. With one look I knew what my little brother had in mind. I offered Sherlock my hand, and he took it with gusto. We danced; our mother had taught us to dance for years, making us practice with each other. Sherlock and I loved to dance, but we’d once been seen by John and Molly. While they watched, shocked, from outside from the ballroom window, the whole school had come up behind them to witness. They apologized, but it was too late. We’d been laughingstocks for three weeks until Rhys had been shat upon by an horse during a field trip. Still, we quit our dancing lessons, and our mother insisted if we wouldn’t do our lessons, she wouldn’t let us dance in the house. But today, the house was _ours_.

There was a magic to ballroom dancing, almost competitive, and Sherlock and I were if nothing competitive.

I had the upper hand of course, having near six inches and four stone on him, and he couldn’t possibly do anything but follow. We danced the length of the room for nearly an hour, combining the salsa and samba, the foxtrot and the waltz, the tango and flamenco in ways that would horrify our dance teacher, before collapsing on the sofa.

Well, I collapsed. I was spent, I needed a nap. But Sherlock was still going strong, so I forced myself up, not about to let an nine year old outpace me. I started to push the furniture back in place, then planned on making tea to fortify myself.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock hollered from the kitchen, “How long should I defrost a rat in the microwave before dissecting it?”

“You kept that thing?” I yelled back. He’d found a dead rat this spring, and our mother wouldn’t allow him to dissect it, citing concerns about disease. I hadn’t realised he’d found a way to freeze it without her knowledge. I made my way to the kitchen to check up on him, then registered his question again.

“Wait! You aren’t supposed to microwave-” I reached the kitchen as a loud explosion reverberated out of the corner. I pinched the bridge of my nose, “-dead animals.”

I looked at the microwave, it only had a minute or so left, but he’d attempted to defrost it at 90 percent. “You don’t defrost at 90 percent!” I exclaimed, pointing to the microwave, inner window splattered with guts.

Sherlock glared at me. “If it can defrost for 24 minutes at 30%, then it’s 12 minutes at 60% and 9 minutes at 90%. I can do the maths,” he explained patronizingly.

“Yes, your maths are fine, but this isn’t maths! It’s thermodynamics!”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault I haven’t learned that yet. I’m not cleaning it up.”

I cringed, “Neither of us is cleaning it up. I refuse to eat anything heated up in there now. We’ll need to get a new one.”

Sherlock went from irritated to excited in an instant, “Can I take it apart then?”

“Might as well. Wear gloves though, you don’t know what that thing died from,” I pointed to the ruptured rodent.

Sherlock beamed, and ripped the power cord from the wall. He grabbed the microwaved, and carried it bulkily out of the room. I watched him leave, then turned on the kettle. Now I definitely needed tea.

-o-

Having been fortified, I went off on my own exploration. According to my calculations, there was a gap of about two metres by three metres between the east wall of the library and the west wall of the formal dining room. I’d asked our parents about this hidden room, and they assured me I was mistaken. But I knew I wasn’t.

Once in the library, I started with the most ridiculous, but easiest to assess. The east wall was nearly an entire bookshelf, and I began with the top, yanking each book from it’s spot. I made sure they weren’t harmed, but let the scatter haphazardly otherwise; I’d been wanting to reorganize this entire wall for years; my parents had done the blasted thing alphabetically. Now was my chance to implement the 2nd edition of the Anglo-American Cataloguing Rules.

But first, I needed to know what was behind the bloody wall. Once all the books were down, and none of them led to a trap door, I began on the pictures and assorted novelties my parents acquired over time that were displayed on the shelves and the mantels. I removed each one before setting it back, then moved on the the architectural features of the room. I already knew if I couldn’t find the entryway to the hidden room, I would resort to using some sort of drywall cutting tool. But I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I had almost decided to move into the dining room when I heard a loud crash.

I rushed to the window to find the microwave on the ground, mangled in all its gut filled glory. I ran outside and looked up to find Sherlock on the roof. I looked down to the microwave, clearly tossed from the roof and ask, “And the purpose of this?”

“Taking too long to open,” Sherlock dismissed. He jumped, and I nearly panicked, but he’d tied a rope to the chimney and rappelled his way down the side of the house. He pried open the dented outer wall of the microwave.

“See? Perfect!” He smiled. He looked up to me, “When I’m done with this, are you ready for the Holmes 100?”

The Holmes 100.

It was Sherlock’s brainchild, though we’d worked on it together for the last two year. It was a combination of chemical reactions, that, if executed perfectly, acted as a flawless Rube Goldberg machine in turning rabbit feces into launching a full sized weather balloon into the atmosphere. It took 100 steps, each delicately and precisely measured. Nothing was going to stand in our way.

Nothing, that was, until she came up the sidewalk, “Mycroft?”

Her name was Anthea. I’d written in over and over again in my Current Events notebook. Ever since John and I had decided that while we were boys and friends but not boyfriends, I’d been entranced by Anthea.

“What are you doing?” she asked. I looked at the mess around me, at Sherlock. It would be the ultimate betrayal. But _Anthea_. She had this way taking the neatest notes, that killed me. I shrugged at Sherlock, hoping one day, he would understand. “Just cleaning up.”

Sherlock gaped at me, “Just cleaning up?”

Anthea saw his dismay and tried to accommodate, “It’s okay if you’ve got to play with your little brother. I was just hoping we could go to the museum.”

I couldn’t turn her down. It might be the only chance I had with her. If I said no, she might never ask again!

I looked to Sherlock. “It’s just an experiment,” I dismissed. “Just think about it this way,” I offered, holding out the keys, “The house, it’s yours.”

He glared at me, but it was nothing compared to the beauty on Anthea’s face. “ _Yours_!” I emphasized, putting the keys in his hands. “We’ll be back when the museum closes at eight.”

Sherlock didn’t do disappointment; he did fury and vengeance. And I knew, as I walked away with Anthea, I was going to suffer for it.


	2. Chapter 2

The museum was lovely, though Anthea spent more time talking about her friend Janine than about the art itself. I kept engaged, asking questions, being a proper conversationalist. Finally, on the walk home, she asked me about having the whole house to myself, and I was eager to tell her a bit about myself, perhaps to entice her to come in for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Perhaps she’d even let me put my arm around her on the sofa. 

I was so entranced in Anthea that I caught nothing amiss until a harried woman rushed out my front door, hands full. 

She stopped me on the stoop, “Can I help you?”

I looked at her with a crooked brow, “No. I live here. Can I help you?”

“Oh!” She said with a smile, and juggled her items until a hand broke free. She offered me her hand, “Jacqui Stapleton, realtor. Your brother hired me to sell the house. Sorry, but you don’t live here anymore, I’m afraid.”

Anthea was forgotten in an instant. “What??!” I exclaimed, “He can’t do that.”

Ms. Stapleton looked mildly concerned, but shrugged. “Can and did, I’m afraid,” she shifted the papers until she pulled out a vinyl sign, that just said SOLD in big read letters. “It was a quick sale, since your brother was happy to accept cash.”

“No!” I exclaimed, putting my head in my hands. “Oh God, this can’t be happening. How-?”

“Sorry dear, but it’s not rocket science,” Ms. Stapleton patted my back. “And I should know. Used to be a rocket scientist. Everyone wants to send dogs and monkeys into space, but you put one whale shark in the payload…” she muttered, walking away.

My head was spinning, and I look around, seeing Anthea stand by with eyes wide. 

“Give me just a minute to talk to Sherlock, and you can come in for tea,” I implored.

She shook her head, “It sounds like the two of you have a lot to talk about. Besides, I don’t particularly care for tea.” 

I could hear the rejection in her voice, not just of the tea, but of me. It stung, but I had more pressing concerns at the moment. I turned towards the house, hearing the sounds of Sherlock in the back garden, and stormed to the back.

“How could you do this!?” I demanded, “Mum and Dad are going to kill us!”

Sherlock looked up at me, setting fire to small fuse attached the army men a misguided neighbor had given Sherlock the year before. He smirked as it exploded. “Not us. You. They left  _ you  _ in charge.”

It was diabolical. And I was furious. I tackled Sherlock to the ground, “Where are we going to live now, you insufferable brat?!” Sherlock struck my chest with his bony elbow and rolled on top of me as gasped for breath. He smacked me and I shoved him off. I was about hit him back when a shadow crossed over us.

“Now, now, boys,” A portly, smiley gentleman with a fifties style handlebar moustache stuck out his hand, “Like I’ve always said, ‘In the absence of love, there is nothing worth fighting for.’ You must care so deeply for each other.”

I stared at this man, who stood in my garden as if he belonged there, a man I’d never seen in my life. “Who are you?”

“Oh! I’m Mr. Turner, Rob Turner” he explained, helping my brother and I up. He gestured to the woman and children walking up behind him, “This is my darling wife Sylvia, and our beautiful twins, Donna and Jackson. We’re the family that bought your lovely home.”

I hated them already. They looked like something straight out of Mary Poppins. The wife, Sylvia, held out a platter. My  _ mother’s  _ platter; covered in some sugary confection. 

“Any care for pudding?” she asked temptingly. 

“Yes, please!” Sherlock beamed, and I hated her even more.

“I’m sorry,” I interjected, “But there’s been a mistake. You see, Sherlock-”

“-Forgot to give you your keys,” Sherlock interrupted me, beaming widely at me as he dropped the keys in Mr. Turner’s upturned palm. This time I didn’t hear the heavenly chorus as the keys clattered together, but instead the dragging chains of the enslaved. 

My parents were going to disown me. 

“Would you like the full tour?” Sherlock asked with the false smile everyone seemed to fall for. It was infuriating how the little cuss could turn on his charm like opening a faucet, and even more so how everyone believed him to be genuine when he did.

He went around to the front of the house, opening the door with ridiculous showmanship, “Welcome to your humble abode! Built by our ancestors in the 1882, it is framed with the finest polar pines at least a hundred years in the making.”

I leaned into Mrs. Turner, “Infested with termites. Thousands of them. You could die of naphthalene poisoning. It’s what happened to our cat.”

“Well, nothing like a little renovation project,” Mr. Turner guffawed, rubbing his stomach as though thinking of a Sunday meal.

“Solid construction, a stone brick fireplace saves on heating costs in the fall and winter,” Sherlock gestured to the fireplace, “And ceiling fans and plentiful windows mean delightful cross breezes in the warmer months. The Turners followed him into my parent’s room, detailing the dimensions of the room, and offered examples of ways to improve upon it. He made his way to the master bathroom.

“The bathrooms have been updated with all new fixtures, including the Cukeman 9000 Self Cleaning Toilet,” Sherlock flushed the toilet as demonstration.

I need over to Mrs. Turner again, “Sure, the toilet is new, but the plumbing is shot. There isn’t a toilet in the house into which you can pass a bowel movement.” 

Mrs. Turner smiled blankly at me. “Oh, that won’t be a problem.”

Clearly, the Turners were insane. 

Their tour ended in the garage. I tried one last time, “There are rusty nails poking down from the ceiling and walls. You could get lock jaw. You could die.”

“All up to date on our tetanus shots,” Mr. Turner beamed, “And so many places to hang my tools!”

I was about to give up when the phone rang. 

“Oh, how exciting,” Mrs Turner exclaimed, “Our first call!” She mimicked answering the phone, “Hello, Turner residence.”

Oh no.  _ No . _

I burst past Mrs. Turner, yanking the handle out from underneath her hand at the last moment. “Hello?” I answered.

“Hello, William!” my mother greeted me. 

“Mycroft,” I spat out through clenched teeth. If she were going to give Sherlock and I the same first name, the least she could do was use our middle names.

“Nonsense, William,” she laughed. “How are my boys? How’s William?”

“We’re both fine, Mum.”

“Just be sure you spend time with him. He might not admit it, but he adores you. You leave him for your friends and there’s no telling what he might do. Always the dramatic one, our dear William.”

“Yes,” I agreed with a frown, “He’s an excellent actor.”

“There’s an key lime pie in the freezer for you two to share. Watch a film, play Nintendo, whatever it is boys do these days.”

“Yes, Mum, thank you,” I needed her off the phone. 

“We love you boys!”

“Love you, too.” I answered, and hung up before she could prattle any longer. 

This was going to be all my fault. 

They were most definitely going to disown me. 

-o-

I tried to reassure myself as I scrambled for ideas, that it couldn't get any worse than this.

I was wrong. 

Saturday morning, bright and early, the Turners packed and loaded box after box of our possessions and loaded them into the boot of their car.

I immediately understood, and planted myself behind the vehicle, pleading, “You simply cannot take our items to charity! If- if- if you are simply boxing up all our goods to haul away, then bringing your own things later, wouldn’t it be simpler just to move into an empty house?” I blinked as I heard my words, and marveled at my own inane logic.

“Nonsense, it won’t be a problem at all!” Mr. Turner answered, “Besides, we’ve given the neighborhood children twenty pounds apiece to help out.” He pointed to the front door, where at least a half dozen of our classmates came out carrying boxes. 

“Molly! Billy!” I gaped; two of them were Sherlock’s friends! The little traitors!

“Sorry, mate,” Billy shrugged, “Twenty quid is twenty quid.”   
  
-o-   
  
If reason and sense didn’t work, I decided I simply needed better reasons. But I needed back up. I called John and Molly. 

“We need to find a way to get them out,” I announced resolutely. 

Molly examined a crisp twenty quid note, “Why should we? I kind of like them.”

“Because if you don’t,” I warned, “Do you think the Turners will sneak you into the basement to let you dissect animals?”

John leaned forward to raise his eyebrows at her, and Molly’s eyes grew wide. I could tell she thought I hadn’t known about her and Sherlock’s little biology experiments.

“Fine,” she decided, “What do you need me to do?

-o-

I stood behind Molly with a spade as she knocked on the door.

Mrs Turner opened the door with a eerily Stepford smile and a plate of fresh biscuits. “Good afternoon, dear. Biscuit?”

“Hello Mrs. Turner,” Molly said, and reached out a hand. I coughed, and she slumped her shoulders. “No, thank you. My name is Molly Hooper and I’m the junior veterinarian for The Grimbsy Upon Vasey Animal Clinic. I help Mr. Chinnery with the animals. I don’t know if you know this, but your backyard is the city’s graveyard for all the euthanized animals.”

She held up a bucket. “Mr Chinnery needs me to bury these animals right away before the crows start to peck their eyes out.”

“Well, that’s just lovely,” Mrs. Turner accepted the news with a tilt of her head, “It’s like my husband always says-“

“-death is the best fertilizer!” Mr. Turner appeared behind her with his own shovel. “I know where the vegetable patch is going to go!”

-o-

I hoped John could sell his role better than Molly had.

I watched him from my perch in a tree across the street, binoculars in hand. Which was absolutely useless when Mr. Turner invited him inside.

I climbed down and stalked around the house, trying to figure out what room he was in. I heard laughter coming from the kitchen, and snuck around to peek in the window. John was sitting between the twins, who were fighting over his attention.

“No, you’ve got to try this,” Jackson said, sticking a second straw in his drink, then offering it to John. As John bent down to take a sip, Jackson winked and said, “I make a mean Italian soda,” then sipped from his own straw, nose just centimetres away.

“Oi!” Donna protested, “You can’t make a choice till you’ve tasted my pie.” John turned to look at her, and she scooped up a piece on a fork and fed it to him, wiping a bit of berry filling off the side of his lip with her thumb.

“I dunno,” John said, looking pleased as punch, “They’re both delicious. But I guess, if I wanted something to quench my thirst, I’d say Jack won. But if I needed something warm and sweet, Donna, you’d win.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned. This was getting painful.

I had to make an executive decision. If I couldn’t get our friends to care enough to help properly, then I was going to have to pay. It was time to bring in a mercenary.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Holmes. Mycroft. Or should I say William?” Jim Moriarty asked, a taunting gleam in his eye.

“Mycroft is fine,” I answered hastily, politely. I abhorred working with the enemy, but the fact of the matter was that sometimes it was necessary, from global politics to neighborhood squabbles, to cease fire for one's own benefit.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

Truthfully, I was. He’d offered me his hammock, expressing his sympathy for my rough day, beseeching me to relax. I knew it was a trap. It had to be a trap. And yet, here I was, cozy in the softly swaying hammock. “It is a quality hammock, Jim, I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” I lied, trying to sway him with consideration.

“I’m so glad you appreciate it, Mycroft. I find that it is an ideal location for my friends,” he suggested ominously while coming behind my head.

It all came together: his words, the hammock, his reputation, and I prepared myself for the first impact. A soft pressure on my shoulder turned into a heavier weight than I expected, but I kept my breath steady as the tarantula climbed down my chest. Logically, I knew I was safe, but my more primal instincts begged me to obliterate the threat, to get the unnatural looking hairy beast off my person.

But this was my cost, and if any of the rumors about Mental Moriarty were true, I had a great deal more friends to meet.

“I can understand why,” keeping most of the discomfort from my voice, but I knew it was a talent I hadn’t quite perfected. I knew I’d given him a weakness, and he’d exploit it well before he’d agree to help.

“Such good friends, my spiders. But you? When is the last time you invited me over? Offered me a glass of lemonade, asked me join in those silly games of yours? You come to me asking for a favor, like we’re friends.”

“We can do that,” I offered quickly, showing my hand perhaps a bit too soon, but if it got the Turners out of the house I’d gladly have Mental Moriarty over for dinner once or twice. “My mother makes the best puddings, you can come by. But it only works if we have the house back.”

“Well, let’s let my friends get to know you. If they like you, perhaps they’ll help.”

I relaxed into the hammock, controlling my anxieties, finding a place inside me to settle, as at least a dozen spiders began to crawl over my body. They weren’t shy, one sat on my forehead, then decided my cheek was more comfortable. I shivered, goose-flesh erupting over my body. Another started up the pant of my leg, and I had never been so glad that I’d worn a smaller pair of jeans today, the only pair I could find after the Turners had packed the rest up, and that there wasn’t any extra room for a giant spider to fit past my knee.

It was worth it. Once he’d finished his psychological torture, Jim pulled out a chainsaw from his garage, as well as some sort of scythe. The weapons, in addition to his tailored suit, gave him the appearance of a reaper who was updating with the times.

We walked to my house, and he gave me a deep, unsettling look. “You owe me, Holmes.”

I agree rapidly, anything would be better than my parents finding out that Sherlock had sold the house.

He kicked the door open with his foot, the chainsaw roaring in one hand and the scythe swinging wildly in the other. “Welcome to the neighborhood!” he shouted, the same insane look that honestly scared the the crap out of me when it was aimed my way.

I slipped out of the way, no need to get caught in the crossfire. I stayed two houses away, and even from there I could hear the squeals and shrieks. I trusted he’d finally figured it out; how to exterminate the Turners from our house.

Finally, the noise quieted down, and I could have sworn I heard music. Mental Moriarty’s victory march, perhaps?

I didn’t even need to sneak around the house to find him.

There he was, in my sitting room, sitting in a circle on the floor, wearing a paper crown, playing duck duck goose.

_Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._

-o-

The night sky was beautiful, and had it been any other day I might have appreciated it. Sherlock glared at the stars. “Stupid stars,” he complained from the top bunk. “What is the point of knowing about them? Mrs. Maddox keeps trying to teach them, and I fail to see the point. If they’re millions of light-years away, what possible value can be gained from knowing any more about them?”

Sherlock sighed, “Just more useless bollocks for me to delete. Can’t you tell them Mycroft? How worthless it all is; so I don’t have to take these nonsense classes anymore?.”

Just the sound of his voice irritated me. “It’s the least of my problems right now, Sherlock,” I snapped. “Mum and Dad are going to kill me. I suppose you’d like that, being an only child. Or was that your plan all along?” I sneered, “To get rid of me? You’ve always hated that I’m smarter than you.”

His voice was small, but vicious, “You’re the one who didn’t want me around. You jumped at the chance to leave me behind.”

I could hear beyond the vitriol to the hurt inside. I felt duly chastised, until I remembered exactly why I was sleeping on my bunk bed in the front garden, at which point I grew angry again. “That didn’t mean you needed to sell the bloody house!”

“I hardly thought you’d care. You’ve got a solution for everything. Isn’t that why Mummy loves you best?”

I couldn’t take much more of this. I pulled my blankets and pillow off the bed, finding a comfortable patch of grass to rest on. I could barely rest, tossing fitfully, wondering exactly what the depth of my punishment might be.

-o-

When I woke, Sherlock was already busy. It took me nearly no time at all to realise he was building the Holmes 100, regardless of our current distress and predicament. A sudden calm washed over me. The whole selling of the house debacle had come to a head, and I felt as though there were nothing more I could do. I decided perhaps it was time to indulge Sherlock, create one last memory of a time in our old house, a time when I was still a member of the family, not huddled under old newspapers living rough in a London alley. To help Sherlock with the Holmes 100, to create a spectacular series of chemical and physical reactions, to set a weather balloon high into the English atmosphere could be my last legacy as the elder brother of the Holmes family.

We fiddled about, setting each experiment to the exact preparations we’d been planning for years. It was the least I could do my for my brother, after I had ditched him for Anthea. And perhaps the last chance we’d get to execute the Holmes 100 before our parents arrived. Who knew where we’d be living then.

It took all morning and afternoon, and I realised an hour or so in, that I was thoroughly enjoying myself. When we got along, Sherlock and I could be the best of friends. I remember, a long time ago, when we both thought he was an idiot, and I was worried that he’d be left behind, the dullard, the laughingstock. But that was before we’d met other children; what a mistake _that_ was. Now I knew Sherlock was the closest thing I had, would ever have, to a partner, a companion, and I was glad to be able to discuss the details of our experiment with him.

Once the chain of experiments were ready, we looked at each other, excited but nervous. We only had one shot at this, one chance for each experiment to go perfectly in order to set the weather balloon afloat. If we succeeded, we’d have swathes of data at our fingertips, a wealth of information regarding the weather patterns of England, perfect for us to study the effects of weather on everything from Parliament votes to crime sprees.

“Sherlock, I believe you should do the honours,” I offered. He beamed, and flicked on the Bunsen burner for the first experiment. We watched, breathlessly, as each experiment executed flawlessly. There was a moment of hesitation, when the chemical reaction on experiment thirty four took four seconds longer than we’d anticipated, and we paused, on edge, until finally it sparked the thirty fifth experiment.

It was beautiful, a thing of exquisite precision and academic perfection, and, finally, our crowning achievement, our moment of bliss, as we watched the weather balloon fill and launch. We craned our necks up high, watching the balloon float away on a swift gust of wind, and Sherlock smiled brightly at me, “Thank heavens the Turners didn’t sell the Commodore.”

The mood crashed down around me. “The house!” I panicked. “Mum and Dad’ll be here in-” I looked at my watch, “-six minutes!”

“I’ve a plan,” Sherlock assured me, with a devious smile and a pat on my arm.

-o-

“Do I want to know where you acquired a Second World War era cannon?” I asked Sherlock, as we pushed it up to the front door.

“Probably not,” he answered truthfully, and for the moment I let it slide. “Just ring the doorbell,” he instructed.

Mrs. Turner opened the door. I looked her square in the eye, with all the severity I could muster. “We need to talk.”

“This is our house!” Sherlock blurted out. “Either you go, or we’ll take the whole house down with us!” To emphasize his point, he lit the cannon’s fuse with a cigarette lighter. I didn’t ask where it came from.

I took a step back, not knowing entirely what sort of kick back we could expect. My heart was pounding, and I was terrified that the Turners might not relent. Although I’m not sure which would be worse; mother and father finding out we’d sold their house, or finding it a pile of rubble and ash. Regardless, I was doomed, so I stood tall and steady on the side of the cannon.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Turner said in her freakishly pleasant manner, as if I’d only stepped on a begonia. “Well I”ll have to discuss this with Mr. Turner. “Rob, dear!”

Mr. Turner came from around the corner, trimming the branches of the poplar mother had planted to shade the house in the summertime. He chucked, holding the large trimmers in one hand, and had the other hand planted on his hip.

“Oh, boys, I thought we might see a little display like this,” he shook his head with a smiled equally as unsettling as his wife's. He came over to the cannon, and gave us a pitiable look, “But it’s like I always say-” he leaned down, and snipped the fuse to the cannon to neutralise it, “You don’t live here anymore.”

My jaw dropped. Though it was spoken with the traditional British reserve, I could hear the sinister underpinnings. Who _were_ these Turners? It didn’t matter, of course, I could see our parent’s car nearly two blocks off, coming down the street, and Sherlock and I resorted to Plan Z. Emotional manipulation and begging.

“This is our home,” I pleaded. “That dull red spot?” I pointed to the corner of the house, “That was Sherlock’s first experiment with mammals and over oxygenation.” I pointed to small carvings in the front garden’s tree, “These lines were the heights of our rockets, made with our own combustion engines and fuel. I’m winning right now, how will Sherlock ever know if he bests me?”

I slumped, looking at the Turners with my most pleading look, “This house, it’s where I met Sherlock. It our home.”

Mrs. Turner looked at me, a soft empathy on her face, “I understand. This house means loads to you. You have so much history here.”

“Yes,” I nodded, hopeful, “Will you sell it back to us?!”

Mrs. Turner looked to Mr. Turner, and they had a subtle, wordless conversation between them. Mrs. Turner looked to me with her plastic smile and big doe eyes, “Nope! But we’ll build on the memories!”

I held my head in my hands as Mum and Dad pulled into the drive. I was well and truly bollocksed.  

-o-

Sherlock and I both greeted our parents with obvious over enthusiasm. My mother pulled back, hands on my shoulders, “What did you do?”

“Have you met the Turners?” I deflected, albeit poorly.

My mother and father looked up to the couple standing in our front garden, their twins with happy smiles behind them.

“Hello,” Mum greeted them cautiously.

“Are you from around here?” My Dad asked.

Mr. Turner chuckled, “In a manner of speaking.”

It was time. I had to confess. There was nothing left to do.

I looked between Mum and Dad, “We may have, um, sold the house while you were gone.”

Mum gave me stare fit to kill, while Dad fell to his knees, crying out, “My garden!”

In fight or flight mode, Sherlock and I backed our way to the garage, where our bikes were still located; the Turners hadn’t gotten around to donating the garage goods to charity. As Mum began a heated conversation with the Turners, we fled the house, hoping to avoid the wrath of Mum. But once she calmed down, and began to look at it from our perspective, she grew even more irate, and followed us in the car for three hours, while we rode our bikes. My quads were like jelly by the time she relented.

Sherlock and I spent a week living out of our bunk beds in John’s garden; Mum simply wouldn’t allow us to enjoy the luxury of the hotel she’d reserved with our father while they searched for a new place to live.

But as it happened, Mr. Turner was relocated by his employer a week later, and we were able to buy the house back below cost. Sherlock had tossed the money into a high risk, high gain investment fund on Friday, and by the following week, when we’d gotten the house back, he’d amassed enough in interest that we were able to buy brand new furniture, clothes, and replacements for everything else the Turners had donated to charity.

Over the years, our parents separated the two events, as if they weren’t related: the _time Mycroft sold the house_ _,_ and the _time Sherlock bought us all new furniture_.

I’d be upset, but honestly, I’m just relieved to have our house back.


End file.
